


God only knows.

by Eulalia_writer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken John, Crying John, Doctor John Watson, Drinking & Talking, Forgive Me, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg is a good friend, Hurt John Watson, I Don't Even Know, John Has Feelings, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, John is Alone, John is a Mess, Johnlock freeform, Late Night Conversations, Late Night Writing, M/M, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-30 01:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10149848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eulalia_writer/pseuds/Eulalia_writer
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is broken and doesn't even know how to deal with his own feelings. Greg is a good friend and wants him to ask for help, before things turn out badly. Nobody wants John to die, but someone has to help him breaking free from this pain.





	

«Whiskey. Neat. Double. Thanks Mark.».

John's voice was sad and exhausted. The bartender filled up an Old fashioned glass.

Greg asked for a beer, and they spent a few minutes drinking silently.

«John, you know, you shouldn't … you know … » Lestrade sighed, sticking his gaze to the bottle until the dark-haired guy put it back to its place right behind the counter.

«Oh, ta. I know man. But hey mate enlighten me then … – he raised his voice to the point that two men turned around to stare at them suspiciously, then he hid his mouth behind the glass – _what the hell am I supposed to do? –_ he took a sip, then closed his eyes before going on – Be … _happy?_ Go … _“on”_ … with my life? – another sip – Are you even _aware_ of what I am going through right now?».

He finished his whiskey in one go, then asked silently for another round, waiting for his last sip to melt the knot he'd been having in his stomach since … since his _best friend_ died.

«No, John. No, I … Look man I have no idea of what you're feeling, but this … this _thing_ you've been doing … - he sighed, then sipped his bier – _this is not going to bring you Sherlock back._ ».

John almost chocked on his own drink. He knew it. He _abso-bloody-lutely_ knew it.

And yet it was still incredibly hurtful, hearing it coming out from someone else's mouth.

He coughed, feeling the alcohol burning his throat while making his way down to his empty stomach.

He had lost ten pounds in two weeks. Not voluntarily, of course: it just sort of … _happened_.

One day he'd just gone back home and hadn't felt like having dinner. And the same thing happened the next day. And the day after that day, and so on. Mrs Hudson had easily noticed his lack of hunger and had forced him to eat at least some pasta every evening, but John used to have lunch at the hospital and no one had ever paid enough attention to his eating habits to notice that he had reduced his meals to just an apple per day.

Greg knew him enough to know that he needed help.

He placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder, holding it tight and friendly until the blond man raised his gaze to meet his friend's.

«John, you … you need _help_. _Help, okay?_ Have you-have you tried to talk to … I don't know man. To _anyone?_ Is there … is there _anyone_ you can talk to, about … _this?_ ».

«I'm talking to _you._ ».

«I am _not_ exactly the right person to talk to. – he pointed a finger in his direction – Listen John. When I say _“anyone”_ I mean … anyone like … a _therapist?_ It may help you out.».

John grinned, but his eyes were filled with anger and grief.

«You know what would _actually_ help me out? – his voice cracked – _Having him back._ – he took a deep breath, trying to shut down the pain in his voice – Having him walking around at night, sleeping during the day. Chasing criminals, being chased by policemen. I can't explain it, Greg. _God only knows how many times I'd wished I was dead too, just to be with him._ ».

The blond man glared at his glass, spying on it for a few seconds before bringing it to his lips and finish up his whisky.

« _God only knows …_ – he said again – _how much do I still love him_. But he's dead. – he raised his gaze and met his friend's – He's _dead_ , Greg.».

He leaned against the counter, hiding his eyes with his hands in order to prevent Greg from seeing them.

For the first time in months, John finally cried.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys :)  
> Just wanted to add a short comment cause writing this story has been kind of weird for me (cause it involves lots of feelings and pain and I'm not good at writing down sentiments).  
> But yay I managed to finish this OS so let me know what you think of it :)  
> \- Eulalia_writer


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